


Maker Damned Fools - Fluffy Version

by CrackingLamb



Series: Fluff-uary 2020 Collection [1]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But Reasonably Chronological, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff-uary 2020, I Will Go Down With This Ship, No Plot/Plotless, Swearing, Tumblr Prompt, if you're reading this anywhere other than ao3 it's been stolen, please report it thanks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22512703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrackingLamb/pseuds/CrackingLamb
Summary: A simultaneous posting of prompts from tumblr for Fluff-uary 2020.NSFW chapters are marked for your convenience.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras
Series: Fluff-uary 2020 Collection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619764
Comments: 109
Kudos: 81





	1. Flirting

**Author's Note:**

> This is a shorter, fluffier version of a longfic still in the planning stage. See, this is what happens when I try to write something short and sweet. I get Ideas.
> 
> I'm starting the rating at E just so I don't have to change it later. Because I promise, the smut is coming (*snort* I made a pun).

Varric was carrying two wooden mugs as he crossed the Hanged Man's open floor to the table where Hawke sat with the others. A pack of cards peeked out from his belt since he didn't trust anyone at the table not to mark them in his absence. Of course, it occurred to her, he might just be marking them himself while waiting for his drink at the bar, but she felt like his cheating held more integrity than something so obvious. Watching him come back to their usual spot she noticed there was a well practiced agility in how he avoided the raucous drunks at the next table and she grinned at him. He placed one of the mugs in front of her and returned her grin with a smirk.

“See something you like?” he asked.

“Is it the ale – doubtful – the cards, or the chest hair?” Isabela piped up from across the table, her eyes full of mirth. Hawke felt her cheeks burn, because it wasn't actually any of those things. It was just...him. Just...all of him. She took a swig of the ale and hid her grimace behind the mug. Isabela went on, “Honestly, Varric, have you no shame?”

“And you do, Rivaini?” he retorted, hopping into the chair left for him at the 'head' of the table, nodding towards her scantily clad figure.

“Touche, my friend.”

“What are we up for tonight?” he asked, pulling the cards from his belt and shuffling them. His eyes twinkled in the torch light and Hawke deliberately turned her head away from him. No one needed to catch her pining, most of all him.

“Shall we play something we can strip to?” Isabela asked.

“Not in the bar,” Varric replied, raising an eyebrow at her. It was a common routine between them. But it never led anywhere. Which was fine, really, she'd hate to be jealous of her friend. _Oh, Hawke, you're such a disaster._

“Ooh, shall we take it upstairs then?”

“Enough,” Fenris broke in gruffly, his apparent patience for this game already waning. “Just deal the cards, Varric.”

He shuffled some more and offered the cut to Hawke, who took it, pushing the deck back to him when she was done. His hand brushed hers as he took them back and she felt her face flame up again, thankful that the torches kept her in some shadow. _Ugh_ , she thought, _it's pathetic how much I'm a mess around him lately._

_Oh, Hawke, you know_ why _._

The cards dealt, the hands and bets began. Hawke stayed quiet through the first few rounds, too distracted by her rambling thoughts. She folded her hand and settled back to watch instead, burying her face in her mug and pretending the ale didn't taste like four day old sour cabbage.

“Daydreaming, Hawke?” Varric asked some time later.

She noticed only then that the table had cleared out and it was just them. Now that they were alone, he tugged on a lock of her hair, pulling it loose from the simple topknot she wore it in. A curtain of black covered the side of her face as the rest of it fell. She was self conscious of her looks here in Kirkwall. She was pale skinned like her father, with a dusting of freckles, with pale eyes that seemed otherworldly compared to the more honeyed tones surrounding her. She felt freakish sometimes.

“And why would I tell you?” she scoffed, getting back to the subject at hand. “You'd only write it into one of your books.”

“Oh, not everything makes its way onto the page.” He was smirking at her still and now that his full attention was on her, she felt like she couldn't breathe. It was becoming a problem, she noted. The more time she spent with him, the more she wanted to... “Oho, there's a look.”

“Shush.”

“You should've played more, Hawke. I would have helped you fleece Isabela gladly if that's what you were worried about.”

“You do enough 'fleecing' on your own, thank you very much.”

He sighed, but it was in good humor. “Oh, Hawke, you too? My poor chest hair and I are starting to feel objectified.”

She nearly inhaled the final gulp of her ale up her nose. “Varric...”

He chuckled.

“'Objectified',” she snorted. “Says the man who tugs my hair like a schoolboy.”

“What can I say? It's lovely when it's down.”

She wasn't going to touch _that_ with someone else's polearm. Still, retaliation presented itself, propped up by too many ales. She even managed to come up with a good simper. “You know, it _is_ a pity you're so spoken for. But I know your heart only belongs to Bianca.”

“It's true,” he sighed, absurdly melodramatic as he played along and looked over to his crossbow leaning against the wall with yearning. “If only there were worlds enough and time...”

“Oh stop, you fool.” She giggled at him and swatted his arm before she knew what she was doing. _Maker's breath, Hawke, what's gotten into you?_ “Don't make empty promises.”

“Are you feeling...empty, Hawke?”

“And if I was?”

He stood abruptly, gathering up their discarded mugs. “I guess I'd have to get you another drink.”

She watched him weave a seemingly drunken path back to the bar and wondered if he meant to get them both so blackout drunk that they passed out or just enough that their respective demons didn't haunt them while they did something deliciously stupid. He came back with fresh mugs and set one in front of her. She wrapped her hands around it but didn't drink.

“What's on your mind?” he asked.

 _You_.

“Nothing much. I should go, you know. Unless you're going to tuck me in somewhere.”

“Hmm. Is that an excuse to see me out of my duster?”

“I don't know. Would it work?”

“If you were...persuasive,” he dropped his voice on the last word, letting it hang between them, a fine rope to hang herself with.

“I could never come between a dwarf and his crossbow,” she declared, her tone playfully aghast at the suggestion. The gleam in his eye deepened as he smiled, the honey color darkened by the torchlight to something more like fine whiskey.

“You sure you don't want to try?”

“Alas, a homewrecker I am not. Not tonight, anyway.” She took a sip from her mug and discovered he'd brought her plain water. She gulped it down, feeling it slosh in her stomach, but it was cold enough to wash away the fog of the ale. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps. Does that mean you aren't staying? A shame, truly.”

She stood up, preparing to leave the Hanged Man, and looked down at him, sprawled leisurely in his seat. Only Varric Tethras could make slouching in a human sized chair look so easy. Especially when she knew for a fact that he hated that his legs were too long to hook on the rungs comfortably yet his feet were still inches off the floor. There was something challenging in his gaze now, and she wondered at it. Could it be he was finally letting down his infernal guard? She smiled at him, decided to give him an easy out until she figured out what was changing between them. “I wouldn't dream of putting you out of your own bed.”

“Maker forbid. I guess we'd just have to share.”

She snorted. As if _that_ was going to happen outside of her fantasies. “Goodnight, Varric.”

He paused at that, searching her face for something she hoped was buttoned down tight now that her head had begun to clear. At last he smiled, the twinkle back in his eye and his voice full of promise. “Goodnight, Hawke.”


	2. First Kiss

Drunken shenanigans were bound to happen sooner or later. Hawke hadn't been prepared for it to be after an attempted mugging in the shadowy pathways between the Hanged Man and Hightown, however. Not to mention she was drunk enough to be slow to reach for her daggers when the six men jumped out at them. Varric glanced her way, raising an eyebrow as if to say 'really, now, six on two is so unfair to them'. He was suddenly as sober as a judge, and she narrowed her eyes at him. In that brief moment before the fight began she wondered how much he'd _really_ had to drink. It was hard to tell with him sometimes.

She didn't know how it happened, but she ended up back to back with him, swaying unsteadily and possibly leaning on him more than she needed to as she faced off with one after the other. In such close quarters, Varric hadn't swung Bianca off his shoulder and the stock was digging into her spine.

“Varric?” she singsonged. “We aren't going to die, are we?”

“Of course not, Hawke,” he replied, grunting with effort as he pushed another brigand off his own dagger, rarely used but not any less deadly for lack of practice. “You haven't kissed me yet. You promised you would before you died.” 

In the space between heartbeats his words settled into her brain and she whirled around off his back and planted her lips somewhere near his hairline. It was clumsy and quick, no more than a peck, and then she was fighting off the final foe with him. She didn't stop to examine her reasoning for doing it and forgot about it as the fight wound down.

They looted their pockets easily enough, found nothing noteworthy, and she wiped her daggers clean on their trousers. The pathway spun around her and she knew that the adrenaline hadn't been enough to burn off what had been an admittedly vast quantity of the Hanged Man's brew. At least she didn't feel sick. Just pleasantly spinny and looselimbed.

“Any idea who they were?”

“Does it matter?” he returned and she shook her head. Lowlifes abounded in Kirkwall, this was not news. One might expect they'd learn not to go after a dagger wielding madwoman with a dwarf at her side, but that was neither here nor there. She meandered to the side of the road and slumped against the wall, watching Varric pick over the men, trying to find any identification on them. A thought occurred to her, jogging her memory.

“Hey, I kissed you, didn't I? Does that mean next time I'll die?”

He frowned at her, and for a moment she could tell he wanted to simply deny her drunken logic, but then he grinned, impish and full of promise. “That was hardly a kiss, Hawke.”

She gazed at him, bleary eyed and weaving. “It wasn't?”

He shook his head, tucking his dagger away and stepping over the fallen bodies. “No, that was more like...an accident between your mouth and my head.”

“Oh.”

He was walking to _her_ , she realized and looked up at him from her half slumped position. It wasn't far like this, the slope of the road and her haphazard posture making them nearly eye to eye. No, he wasn't drunk in the slightest, so why was he...?

“If you were to actually kiss me, I'd expect something much more like _this_.”

He was leaning towards her now, his face just inches from hers. He hesitated for a second, and the part of her brain that was still rational wondered if he was waiting for her to duck out of it. Since she didn't, his head tilted to the side and he pressed his lips to hers.

A vast chasm of _want_ opened up beneath her and she fell right into it. She lurched forward, her hands gripping the lapels of his duster in a crushing curl of her fingers and she slanted her mouth across his, muffling the sound that came out of her. He met her strength for strength. He urged her mouth open with his thumb on her jaw and his tongue pushed against hers. The dark pathway and its grisly inhabitants disappeared from her mind under the onslaught. She only pulled back when she remembered that breathing was a thing necessary to her well-being. She stared at him, his mouth glistening in the low light, the shock clear on his face as it must have been on hers. She forgot to breathe again.

“Apparently I've been wanting to do that,” he said, almost to himself. He focused on her again, and swept his thumb across her bottom lip, a slight smile tugging his own. “No chance you'll forget this tomorrow, huh?”

“No, no chance. Varric...will I die now?” For some reason it seemed very important for her to know.

He sighed and gave her a hand up from the ground. “C'mon, let's get you home. And no, you won't. Because I kissed you first.”

The estate was lit up like a feast day when they arrived and Hawke could see the silhouette of someone waiting for her just inside, someone who disappeared quickly. _Probably Bodahn telling Mother I'm home_ , she thought. She was a woman grown, wasn't she? Ah, it didn't matter. Let Leandra worry if it suited her, it was a mother's prerogative after all.

“Hawke...” Varric broke into her thoughts. She turned to look at him, couldn't decipher the complicated expression on his face in her present inebriation.

“Hmm?”

“I...I'm not sure what I wanted to say,” he mused, with a small huff.

“Strange to find you without words,” she teased. He nodded and looked away, into the middle distance. The dam was broken, there was no putting the water back now, his expression seemed to say. She wondered what a little goading might do. “I'll tell you what, try it again, see if it still has the same affect now that the battle frenzy has worn off.”

She'd never know where the courage came to actually say the words out loud, but she certainly wasn't disappointed in his reaction. He cupped her face, dragging her half bent to reach and kissed her again. It was softer, gentler. No frantic tangle of teeth, tongues or breath. But it built just the same, the thought of stopping suddenly unbearable. She hummed, feeling the same dark chasm beneath her feet, just waiting for her to fall back into it. She wondered if he was feeling it too, the way his fingers slipped into her hair to hold her head in place, the way his heart was hammering under her own hands, braced against his chest for balance.

She pulled away slowly, lingering on the last touch. When she stood up straight, he was still there, his eyes closed, his hands now empty. She felt light suddenly. Filled with it, floating with it. She laughed, hearing it echo off the houses around them.

“That was a good kiss, Varric,” she chortled.

“Yeah...”

“We're fucked, aren't we?”

“Yeah...” But his face perked up at that for some reason. He smiled more fully at her and tossed her a casual salute. “Goodnight, Hawke. I'll see you tomorrow, I'm sure.”

He turned and began the trudge back to the Hanged Man. One of these days she'd get him to stay. She giggled to herself. Maybe she'd throw all the guest sheets down the privy first. _Oh no, you'll have to stay with me!_ “Goodnight, Varric,” she whispered, tapping a finger against her lips, now swollen and tingling. “Goodnight.”


	3. Awkward, But Cute (or Hot, if you prefer)

It was late enough that the others had probably already gathered downstairs for their now weekly Wicked Grace night. Hawke stood up from the seat next to Varric's writing desk and started to head to the door, hearing him right behind her. She remembered at the last second that she'd forgotten to grab her daggers and spun around to get them. Varric had been following a little _too_ closely behind her and smacked right into her chest face first.

“Umph,” he grunted, but he didn't pull away. Not immediately. In fact, she felt him breathe in a sharp inhale in what seemed like perfectly natural surprise. She was so caught off guard she didn't stop the sound that bubbled in the back of her throat. It was distressingly like a moan. She jumped back from him, bumping against the writing desk in her haste to get his face out of her chest. His inkwell rattled but didn't fall over, thankfully.

“Sorry,” she stammered, thoroughly flushed from head to toe. She tried to ignore the feel of his face there, the intake of breath that had sucked a cool spot right between her breasts, which had of course reacted by contracting so tight she _ached_. She wasn't wearing armor. Indeed, she hadn't even worn a tight breastband tonight and her nipples stood out plainly against her shirt. He hadn't taken his eyes off them and she didn't bother to fight the urge to cross her arms and hide them.

“Well...that was...something,” he said at last, still staring absently at her chest as if he could see right through her arms. She glanced down and saw she'd made it worse by pushing her breasts together. A clear line of plump cleavage peered out from the draped collar of the cambric.

“Varric!” She tried for a warning tone, but it didn't quite come out that way. It was too...breathless. She felt suddenly skittish, and the desire to bolt downstairs was tempered only by the fact that if she did, everyone would see her blushing scarlet. That was the trouble with skin as fair as hers. She could endure staying right where she was more than the thought of facing 'Bela's pinpoint accurate teasing.

Varric finally raised his gaze to her face and he stepped back into her personal space with deliberation. She backed off from him, their wordless advance and retreat thumping her up against the door to his rooms before she knew it. He smirked again, clearly enjoying her discomfiture.

“Cara,” he said softly, gently, as if to a frightened hare. _Fuck, just listen to my name in his mouth_ , she thought. “I wasn't complaining.”

“Dammit, Varric...” She didn't get anything else out, because he'd put his hands on either side of her against the door, boxing her in and she was in serious danger of all her bones turning to water. He watched her face the entire time pushed his chin against her, right between her breasts, her arms dropping away and making absolutely no move to stop him. Her breath stuttered and the tiniest smile crossed his lips.

“I'm finally seeing the upside to humans having such long legs,” he commented, rubbing his chin back and forth. The friction opened a gap between the top two buttons of her shirt so his stubble scraped her bare skin above her breastband.

She let out another shuddering breath and wondered just what the hell he was doing. Sure, they'd joked plenty of times about taking their friendship further, and they flirted constantly. They'd even kissed once...or twice. _Only because we both were drunk off our asses_ , she reminded herself, ignoring the fact that he, in fact, had not been drunk at all. She'd never seriously thought he'd make good on any of his threats to toss her like a...a...

His eyes broke contact with hers as he nosed his way into the gap of her shirt. She felt his warm breath an instant before his tongue traced her skin in the parted edges between buttons. Her knees wobbled and she got out a strangled call of his name before they gave out completely and she collapsed to the floor on her ass.

He chuckled and stepped back from her flailing limbs, supremely satisfied with himself. “Well, Hawke, that's...”

“Don't even say it,” she snarled, her face a flaming red. _How_. How did he do this to her? A single touch and she'd literally fallen down.

He knelt between her bent knees, scooting himself as close as he could without actually pulling her legs over his thighs. “I guess we're really going to have to talk about this, huh?”

“Does it have to be right now?” she squeaked, wishing the whole last five minutes hadn't happened. Well...okay, not _really_ wishing, but... Still, this was _Varric_. Her best friend. A dwarf who loudly claimed no interest in human women. Who professed an undying fidelity for the metaphor of lost love his crossbow represented. She wasn't a complete fool, she knew there was a _real_ Bianca out there, somewhere. His heart hadn't just been broken, it had been _shattered_. He'd never shown any sign that he was ready to move on...until now. Why now?

He chuckled again and leaned in quick to kiss the end of her nose, which set off a whole new flurry of agitated butterflies in her stomach. “All right, not right now.” He stood and offered her a hand to get up, like he always did. “But soon, Cara. Very soon.”

He opened the door and jauntily swaggered to the stairs, leaving her a befuddled mess. She remembered again that this had all happened because she went to retrieve her daggers and she stumbled back to his writing desk to grab them.

“Andraste save me,” she muttered, tucking them a bit more forcefully into her belt than was strictly necessary. “I am in deep, deep shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I can't believe in all the fics I've read for these two that this hasn't happened already. I guess sometimes you just gotta be the change you want to see in the world.


	4. Holding Hands

The first time didn't count. They were solidifying an agreement, a compact. It wasn't _exactly_ holding hands. It was shaking on a deal. Right? Right. Hawke rationalized this to herself, watching him across the room, waving his hands around expansively in the middle of his tale.

The next time, it was after a fight. She couldn't even remember what they'd been battling, only that she'd ended up on her ass and he'd held out one long fingered hand to haul her up, not even looking at her. If they'd lingered longer than strictly necessary, that was just because her balance was shaky after landing so hard and he wanted to make sure she was steady before he let go. The fact that he continued to haul her up off her ass after that moment didn't bear analyzing. The fact that she would wait for him instead of getting up on her own was purely coincidental. That was the start of it, she realized, watching him shuffle cards for Wicked Grace night.

She remembered a time in the Deep Roads quite clearly. She watched her sister being carted away, watched Anders' face fall and crumple with exhaustion and defeat and the toll the trip had taken on them all. Varric had taken her hand then, pressed his strong thumb into her palm, leather to leather. She felt the heat and pressure through the layers and let out a breath that was more of a sob. _He_ was the one who'd been betrayed and left for dead. Why was he comforting her? How did he even have it in him? She ruminated on this while watching him clean Bianca.

He held her hand after her mother's murder. The rest of them had given her space, let her grieve, let her stew alone. He had not. He sat next to her, the crackle of sparks from the fireplace their only backdrop, the whispering squeak of the springs on the sofa they'd moved into the library the only sign he'd moved closer. He took her hand in his, cradled it like a broken thing. He didn't speak. She remembered this watching him rub his brow in frustration, the paperwork dealing with their sudden boundless wealth piling up on his desk.

 _She_ took _his_ hand after he buried Bartrand. There were no words to say, and no way to say them even if she had them. All she could offer was the same silent support he'd given her for years. His fingers lay limp in hers for a moment, until his grip fastened on her like a vise. His face never gave anything away that he didn't want anyone to see, but in his grip...she knew. This would have _broken_ him if not for her. She continued to worry over it as she watched him scribble notes to people he would not name.

The tenacity with which he held her hand after the Arishok was plain in her memory. Even after the healing spells, the vile potions, the swearing and blood and torn linen, what she remembered most was his hand on hers. He held her so tight she could swear their bones were going to fuse together. It was a lifeline, a tether keeping her anchored securely in his grasp, and that was when she knew. Beyond any doubt, she knew, even if he didn't yet want to admit it. Even though that was when he essentially moved in to a guest room of her otherwise empty estate to 'watch over' her.

Months later, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist under the table at the Hanged Man, his thumb finding its way into her palm, rubbing slow circles as the others played cards. His face was impassive, giving nothing away, not even a glimmer of a sideways grin. They hadn't breathed a word of it to anyone, it was so new. She prided herself on not even blushing when Isabela teased them for all the time they spent together.

His hands supported hers as he corrected her stance while he attempted to teach her to use a crossbow – not with Bianca, no of course not. His grip was firm and warm, his fingers lingered as he trailed his hands up her forearms, distracting her utterly from the target. They never did find the bolt that went off careening into the trees. Granted, they'd been focused solely on each other for rather a long time after that.

He held her hand as they raced down to the docks, fleeing the city as it burned. His hands had been so cold that night. So bloodless with shock. She knew hers had been the same.

He pressed her hand one last time before they parted at some spot in the wilds of Rivain that she couldn't have pointed out on a map if she tried. It burned more than the searing kiss he'd planted on her. It hurt to think that they might never see each other again, might never touch. It hurt almost enough to relent, to go back to his side and the wreckage that remained in Kirkwall. Almost enough to face the blame she was sure would come for her, the Champion who'd sided with the mages. But she stayed strong and watched him walk away, knowing it was best for both of them. For now.

At last, he laced their fingers together and drew her arms over her head at Skyhold, completing the link of their joined bodies. She wondered if there had ever been a time when she wasn't in love with him. If there had been a single moment when she hadn't been fascinated by his hands. She wondered if he remembered all the times they'd held hands as she did, with wistful reminiscence and the great bubbling joy that they could do it now whenever they wanted, no longer keeping it secret from the Seeker, from the _world_.

“Cara,” he whispered, those two syllables so filled with love it brought tears to her eyes. She returned the pressure of his fingers laced with hers, gripped tight as their bodies moved together. She didn't think she'd ever let go again.

It was such a small thing, holding hands. But for them, it was everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter starts the transition to DA:I. I'm still being deliberately ambiguous on the timing, but it's implied that Hawke is at Skyhold much longer than the game suggests. Since you can't have a good love story with the two main characters on opposite sides of a map, dangit.


	5. Being Silly

The snow crunched under Hawke's feet, and she sank into it nearly to the middle of her shin. She smiled, pulling her foot from the print and gazing out across Skyhold, shining brilliantly in the sun, blanketed completely in the new fallen snow. Seeing Varric and Inquisitor Lavellan talking on the other side of the courtyard, she scooped up a packed handful and let it fly, hitting Varric squarely in the center of his broad back. He turned, a thunderous expression on his face, until he saw her.

The expression didn't change much, but the light in his eyes did. “Cara,” he growled.

“Oh, shit,” she gasped and ran off behind a stand of trees as he leaned down to grab his own handful. He rarely used her first name in mixed company – and thankfully never used her full name in front of _anyone_ , ugh, who wanted to go through life known as _Carmilla_? – so she knew she was in trouble. Like the precision marksman he was, his snowball hit her in the thigh just as she slid to a stop behind a slender elm. Meanwhile, the young Dalish elf stood and watched this interplay, her face confused. For a moment the resemblance to Merrill struck Hawke so hard it hurt, but then the clouds cleared on the woman's face and she scooped up a handful of her own and tossed it. It fell short of the trees, but she was starting to smile.

 _Good_ , Hawke thought. _I should have thought of this sooner. That poor girl has the weight of the world on her shoulders. She needs some fun_.

“Hey, Astrid,” she called aloud, scooping up another ball and forming it loosely in her hands, already dripping. “Catch!” 

She aimed well and while the Inquisitor didn't actually catch the snowball, it burst apart in her outspread hands before hitting her face. From there it turned into a pitched battle, with Astrid gaining more confidence as she moved around the courtyard, slinging hard packed snow at both of them as they tossed them back at her. Varric seemed to have gotten over his ill humor at being the first target and was laughing as he tripped and struggled through the snow that was much deeper on him. Their laughter and mock outraged cries filled the courtyard, echoing up against the stone walls of the halfway restored keep.

Hunched behind a low stack of crates, Hawke paused for breath and saw they'd attracted a crowd of onlookers. She spotted Dorian next to Iron Bull, both watching the proceedings with expressions of resignation and delight, respectively. Bull was bellowing encouragement to Astrid, telling her how to change her aim to get the most out of each projectile. His advice was working too, she mused as she wiped snow from the back of her neck. Cullen and Sera had joined in from opposite corners, and now the courtyard was a free for all.

“Inquisitor...” the accented voice of the Seeker called out severely just as a whole volleys of snowballs went back and forth between combatants. Cassandra stopped mid-sentence as a wet plop hit her right in the face. Silence fell on the courtyard as everyone waited to see what would happen. Hawke caught sight of Leliana ducking back behind a wall. She narrowed her eyes, following the trajectory of the fight backwards and realizing the normally staid and serious Left Hand of the Divine had thrown that ball, _not_ Astrid. Hawke stifled a giggle. Still waters ran deep indeed.

Cassandra still stood completely still, letting the snow melt on her face, her eyes closed. Hawke stood up from her hiding spot, ready to take full responsibility for the game if the Seeker decided to take offense. The hush over the courtyard lay heavy and thick, with only the faint drip of plopping snow off warm bodies disturbing it.

“Ooh,” Cassandra uttered, shuddering all over to get the rest of the snow out of her collar. She whirled around and for a second Hawke thought she might run, but no, she was stooping over, packing the snow swiftly in her strong hands. She threw it hard towards the stand of elms where Astrid was now crouched. It splattered apart against the thin trunks and the fight was on in full force once more.

Hawke watched the rest of it without engaging further since her hands were stinging from the cold and she was fairly well soaked. Cullen had taken over her position and was shouting with each toss, giving himself away every time.

Solas strolled by, deflecting a snowball haphazardly aimed with a quick flick of his fingers so it hit Cole instead, who had been following him. The poor spirit had no idea what to make of the nonsense and seemed happy to just let it happen around him. Hawke quirked her eyebrows at Solas, not having expected the dour elf to join in the fun. He passed his mild gaze over her and nodded slightly.

“An effective diversionary tactic, Hawke. Well done.”

“There is healing in laughter, so much happiness in each drop,” Cole added.

“Thanks...I think.” The elf and the spirit passed on out of the courtyard and Varric came to stand next to her, steaming in the cold air.

“Nice job, Cara,” he said softly enough that no one heard him but her.

“She needed some silly. This whole saving the world job sucks dead ass.”

Varric snorted and brushed snow out of his hair. His ponytail was long gone and bedraggled strands hung around his face. “Did you really have to make me the first target?”

“I knew you could take it.” She smiled down at him, and relented to help him untangle the mess that was his hair. She straightened his chain while she was at it. “Sorry.”

“Huh. As long as you make it up to me later.”

She smiled, looking back at Astrid, now being wrestled playfully into a snowbank by the Chargers. “She reminds me of Beth, ya know?”

“Yeah, I know. Daisy too.” He took her hand in his, chafing her reddened fingers in his gloves. “C'mon, let them play. Let's get you warmed up.”

She followed him out of the courtyard, hearing shrieks and shouts echo off the stone walls. The Breach glowed in the distance but she didn't give it the satisfaction of being noticed. There was still joy to be had, and she'd take every opportunity to spread it around, as long as she could.

“Please tell me this Maker damned place has hot cocoa.”

“I'm fairly certain,” Varric chuckled. “I'll even make it myself, with a pinch of cinnamon in it the way you like it.”

“You're the best, you know that?”

“I do, in fact.” He grinned at her and ushered her inside, leaving the merrymakers behind.


	6. Caught In the Rain

The gardens at the Winter Palace were magnificent, Hawke decided, wandering the paths and through labyrinths of hedges. It was very different than both her upbringing in Ferelden and living in the stony conglomerate that was Kirkwall. She felt out of place among such finery. She missed her dog.

 _He's safest with Bethany, and it's only until I'm done here_ , she reminded herself, then snorted at the thought of a battle hardened mabari at the Court of Orlais.

“What's funny?” Varric asked, coming around a corner. She'd moved to a balcony that overlooked the gardens, simply enjoying the sight of them from afar. Now she enjoyed the sight of him approaching, his walk confident, the affection in his eyes shining out like a beacon.

She snickered at him. “Can you imagine Goliath here?”

“Hah!” He shook his head. “That giant, gray slobber hound would piss on the stairs and eat the drapes. And knock me over. Bull would be entertained, at least.” He stood beside her at the balustrade. His hand covered hers. “You really miss that wretched animal, don't you?”

“You just don't like him because he's bigger than you.”

“You're not wrong.”

“I'm bigger than you, you seem to like me just fine.”

“ _You_ are easier to ride when you're on all fours.”

She gasped and swatted at him. “Varric Tethras!” He laughed outright, capturing her hand and kissing the back of it merrily. She allowed herself to be mollified. But only because she had no cause to complain of his...riding skills. “Varric, what are we even doing here?”

“Well, I know what our illustrious Inquisitorialness is doing here. We just tagged along for the ride and the chance for a fancy party.”

She tightened her grip on his fingers, knowing what was unsaid. This was a dangerous game they played here in Orlais. Hawke had seen enough war to know they didn't want to be caught in the middle of this one. “Walk with me.”

“It's going to rain, Hawke.”

She shrugged. “So?”

“Fereldans,” he muttered, but he walked with her down the stairs of the balcony and into the verdant depths of the massive garden. She poked her head into openings in the hedges, cooing over the various flowers in their pots and testing the strength of the overgrown vines that trailed down from tall trees in places. He followed her at a sedate pace, seemingly happy to just watch her be around green, growing things.

And sure enough, just as Varric predicted, it started to rain. She tipped her head back and let the gentle drops fall on her cheeks, closing her eyes and reveling at the smell of petrichor.

“Cara...” he breathed, sounding like he was in awe.

She opened her eyes to look at him, frosted all over with the misty raindrops and she smiled. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing. You're...beautiful in the rain.”

She was about to reply when the gentle sprinkle turned into a heavy downpour with little warning. They both squawked and laughed, running to the scant protection of an archway suspended between two hedgerows. The stone lintel blocked the worst of the rain, but that only made them more aware of how drenched they would get trying to make it back inside the Palace.

“Probably should wait it out,” she said, catching her breath from their frantic race.

“Oh, you don't want to pass all those stuck up their own ass nobles like a drowned rat from one of Rivaini's ships?”

“Thank you, no.”

He chuckled. “Well, if I had to get stuck in the rain somewhere, I'm glad it's with you.”

“How is Isabela anyway?” Hawke asked. “I'm assuming you've heard from her more recently than I have. Being constantly on your errands has a tendency to keep me out of the loop.”

“Those errands keep you safe.” He made a face at her, but it was merely a teasing one, belying his serious tone. “Anyway, her last letter was pretty old, but at the time, she was fine. That broody elf is still with her. She'll make a man of him yet.”

She snorted. Fenris and 'Bela were an odd pair to be sure, but she was glad they had each other, for whatever it was worth. At least they got to be together, which was more than she could say for her and Varric at times. She scrubbed her arms up and down, feeling chilled as the heavy rain lowered the air temperature. Varric noticed and added his warmer hands to the mix.

“Any excuse to put your hands on me?”

“Can't have you take a chill. I've got plans for you, beautiful.”

“Hmm. I _will_ need warming up once we get back to our rooms.”

“Just don't make me late for the ball.”

“I hope Astrid isn't expecting me to come down for that.” Mingling with nobility was not high on her list of things she found enjoyable, although the prospect of seeing Varric all dressed up might mitigate that.

“No, I think Astrid is actually hoping you'll wander the back halls all rogue-like and sneaky, see if you can't pick a few locks, steal a few important evidential things to untangle this mess.”

“'Evidential'? Is that even a word?”

“Trust me, I'm a writer.”

She tipped up his chin and leaned down to kiss him. “You do have your moments, I must say.”

He smirked at her and drew her in for a much better kiss, with teeth and tongue and hums of pleasure. Who cared if it was pouring when she had a man kissing her like that? At some point they ended up against the frame of the arch, half buried in hedge, but neither of them cared. Neither of them noticed when the rain tapered off to a gentle mist once more, until the sun broke through the clouds, piercing in its brightness.

“Ah well, looks like playtime is over.”

“Is it?” She sauntered out into the sun, listening to the drips from all the wet plants. “I thought we had business to attend to before the ball.”

“I do my utmost to never let down a lady,” he said with a flourishing bow. She laughed and took his hand, leading him back out of the garden. Time would wait for no one, Champion or dwarf. Best make the most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The implication here of 'errands' is that Varric made Hawke a part of his spy network while she was on the run after events in Kirkwall. Keeping her on the move kept her safe from retaliation and gave them an opportunity to remain in close contact, at least of the written kind. And yeah, I know Hawke doesn't go to the Winter Palace, but honestly, do you think after conceivably years apart she wouldn't hide in Varric's trunk just to tag along wherever he goes if she had the chance?
> 
> Hawke's mabari Goliath will make an actual appearance soon, too. Why yes, he does get his name and coloring from the show Gargoyle's. Credit goes completely to Iron_Angel for that.


	7. First 'I Love You'**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised the E rating would be relevant. This is most definitely NSFW.

There were hounds in the stables at Skyhold. They weren't mabari, but they were well bred enough that Hawke was equally as entertained by their antics as their canine intelligence. She missed Goliath sorely, but these rangy hunters filled a little of the void.

She smiled to herself, remembering Goliath and Varric's oft exasperating relationship back in Kirkwall. She'd never had the heart to discipline her massive gray dog for barreling him over, it was just too funny. Mabari were singularly loyal to their masters, this was true, but whatever the master was loyal to seemed to fall into a category of 'also important'. And of course _Varric_ was important to her...

***

Goliath pricked his ears in attention as soon as the door opened below. From her casual sprawl in the library, Hawke could hear Varric's murmur as he spoke with Orana. In her mind's eye she could see him shrugging off Bianca's harness – although he wouldn't leave his crossbow behind – and doffing his customary leather duster. He might even stop in the dining room and grab two tumblers and his favorite bottle on his way up. It was strange how much changing one thing between them had changed everything.

She listened for clinking as his footsteps approached, Goliath at her side nearly vibrating with excitement. She didn't hear glass and suppressed a giggle.

“Go get'im, boy,” she whispered when the library door opened. She tucked a marker in her book and stood up in time to see the gray mabari barrel right into Varric, knocking the wind out of him and sprawling him on the floor with a thump and a muffled curse. Goliath stood over his 'prize' and panted happily, nearly dripping drool into Varric's hair, his stumpy tail wagging so hard his whole back end wagged with it. Hawke whistled, quick and sharp, and her dog sat attentively next to the downed dwarf, who propped himself on an elbow and scowled at her.

“Andraste's _tits_ , you're lucky I love you,” he growled. He checked Bianca over for scuffs, since sure enough, he'd brought her up with him, and shook his head in mock dismay. When he looked back at her, he seemed to register the stillness with which she stood. His words had shaken her pretty hard, she realized. Or maybe it was her own wishful thinking banging against reality. “What?”

“You sounded like you meant that,” she said, suddenly breathless. They'd both said it before, a joke after a battle or drunken foolishness. Never with that genuine... _intensity_.

A number of expressions crossed his face. Surprise, chagrin, a fleeting cocked eyebrow that meant he wanted to make a joke, the weight of seriousness when he realized he didn't. He stood up and took Bianca to the low bookshelf where he'd started keeping some manuscripts of his own, along with a selection of books he hadn't wanted to keep at the Hanged Man. With a soft click the crossbow was laid to rest there and when he turned back to her, his face was pensive. Time seemed to stop as he crossed the library and sat down on the sofa facing the fireplace. She stood next to it, almost fearing to move in case she broke whatever spell held Varric in an truthful mood.

“Huh,” he said presently. “I did.”

She looked down on him and felt a grin crack her face. “Is that you _sounded_ like you meant it, or you _actually_ meant it?”

He scowled at her again, but it was tempered with warmth in his eyes. “Cara...stop being so willfully obtuse.”

“It's not every day I get such an honest reaction from a self described liar,” she countered, still grinning. “So excuse me if I need clarification.”

He raised an eyebrow at her and shrugged in that insouciant way he had that both drove her batty and made her want to rip his clothes off. It was still a bit mind boggling to her that that's where they were now. They could just... _do_ that, if they wanted.

His face relaxed and he grinned back at her, extending a hand out towards her that she took eagerly. “All right, that's fair.”

He tugged on her hand, drawing her around the arm of the sofa until she stood in front of him. With another tug, and a calculating gleam in his whiskey eyes, she had only a second to adjust in order to straddle him instead of ending up in a heap of too long limbs in his lap. Goliath whined, coming across the room to nose at them. Hawke was getting lost in the expression on Varric's face, and couldn't bear to look away.

“Goliath, go to the kitchen,” she murmured, seeing the grin on her dwarf's lips deepen with intent. The mabari made a sound rather like a huff, but he left them in peace. She wasn't paying attention to the dog now, as Varric tugged off his gloves and slid his fingers into her hair, holding her head in place as he kissed her.

She knew she made a sound, muffled against his mouth and full of want and she could feel the rumble of a chuckle out of him. When they pulled away from each other, he was still laughing quietly and she tugged on the ring in the cartilage of his right ear. It just wasn't right that he could make such a mess of her in so few moments.

“Ow,” he yelped.

“You'll live,” she whispered. “That's what you get for all the times you pulled my hair.” He smirked and tugged on her scalp for good measure before dropping his hands down to shift her so he could pull up her skirt and lay his palms on her skin. Heat blossomed between them, hot as forge fire, and he grew hard and insistent beneath her. She hummed. His fingers brushed around her thighs, tracing the firm muscles there, before coming to rest on her backside.

“Hawke,” he said softly, his voice growling. “You are a shameless thing, aren't you?”

She grinned. He'd discovered she wasn't wearing smalls under her skirts. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Uh huh. Lean back for me.”

She did, bracing her hands on his shoulders as he let go of her ass and shoved skirt away from where it was bunched between them. His thumb slicked against her, sliding over her clit to dip into her by degrees, utterly distracting her from him unbuttoning his pants with his other hand. His freed erection smacked against her core with a muted slap, making her jump and giggle. He never took his eyes off her face while maneuvering them to a better position. Then he impaled her in one quick thrust, filling her and make her breath stutter to a stop.

“Oh...Varric...” she whispered.

“I love when you say my name like that,” he murmured, pressing his lips against her throat, tasting her pulse. His hands returned to her backside, guiding her movements, keeping her from unleashing a fury on him with slow strokes. She made wordless sounds, guttural and gasping and he chuckled. She was malleable in his hands, for once willing to give up command of a situation to let him lead. He knew this well and took full advantage of it, building up the tension in her body with more skill than such short... _acquaintance_ should account for. Maker damn him.

She shivered and came apart at the seams, with a cry he muffled with his tongue in her mouth. She held on to him for dear life, panting and growing sweaty as he did, pumping into her with greater abandon now that she'd hit her climax. With a groan and a tight grip on her hips, he filled her to overflowing, his face languid and peaceful in the afterglow. She rested her face in his neck, letting her body come down from the high. Her legs were beginning to cramp, but not enough to worry about moving just yet. She knew they were a mess of mingled fluids too, but again, it was a distant thought. Something to be dealt with later. Much later.

“Varric,” she said in his ear, enjoying the shivers as he rubbed her back. “I love you too. So much.”

***

“What are you thinking about that's got that look on your face,” his voice broke through the memory. She turned and smiled up at him, her folded legs overflowing with full grown hound determined to be a lapdog.

“The first time you told me you loved me,” she replied. Varric propped a foot on the railing of the stall next to them and smirked.

“That was a fine evening, as I recall,” he said, trying and failing to look properly serious.

Hawke laughed. “Until Goliath got into the pantry.”

“Hey, you're the one who sent him to the kitchen,” he reminded her.

“I was distracted at the time.”

He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Well I can't argue with that.”


	8. Pet Names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or in this case, why everyone else gets one, but Hawke doesn't.

The Herald's Rest was much nicer than the Hanged Man, and Hawke could tell Varric thought so too. He pointed to a corner where the massive shape of Iron Bull could be seen, surrounded by his Chargers and Astrid, who looked entirely too dainty next to him.

“Hey, Tiny, got room for a couple more in here?” Varric called out as Hawke grabbed an ale for herself and something advertised as a dwarven sweet wine for Varric. She didn't even want to guess how the Inquisition had such a thing sourced. There actually wasn't much room, but Varric managed to sidle into a chair and he patted his lap suggestively, daring her to sit on him in public. She gave him a look, but took his bait, settling herself crosswise on his legs where she could lean back on his arm and still see the crowd. He chuckled softly under her, awarding her a point for scandalous bravery. As if she had some other kind.

Bull was smiling at them, shaking his horned head. “You two are adorable, you know that?”

“Hey, I can't let him out of my sight now,” she said, digging her shoulder into Varric's chest. “Who knows what kind of trouble he'd get himself into next? No offense, Inquisitor.”

“None taken,” the young Dalish elf said around a mouthful of ale. It was good to see her in a setting like this, relaxed and happy and not thinking about the weight of the world. Hawke exchanged a glance with Bull and saw that he'd planned that just as she had with the snowball fight. She gave him a quick nod and he grinned. Astrid finished her glass – and it was just a glass, Hawke noticed – and stood up, her small hand on Bull's arm to get his attention. “Thank you for inviting me, but I really should get back to the Keep.”

Bull frowned but nodded. “Krem, see her back, would you? Just don't turn into a Kremsicle, it's cold out there.”

Krem rolled his eyes, but shouldered his sword. “Of course not, Chief. Maker forbid you should be without me. What would you do then?”

“Hmm, I'd have to find a new Krem of the crop.”

Varric snorted under his breath and the rest of the Chargers made some sort of exasperated sound too. Apparently this was a long standing joke between them. Varric must have read her mind, since he nudged her and said, “Bull has a different pun for him for every situation. The list of nicknames is inexhaustible.”

“Takes one to know one,” Bull retorted, but his tone was light and teasing. “The only person I have yet to hear you call something ridiculous is Hawke.”

Varric opened his mouth to reply, but Hawke was already laughing. “It's true, you know. You've never called me anything but Hawke.”

“Now you know that's not true.”

“Varric, what you call me behind closed doors doesn't count,” she said with a lascivious grin, which he echoed. Then it turned sour as he sipped his drink. The look he gave her was one of betrayal and disgust.

“What is _this_ nug shit?”

She laughed so hard she nearly fell off his lap. “I was curious how you'd react.”

He raised an eyebrow at her and delicately set the glass down on a barrel with an air of thorough distaste. “I am _not_ drinking fermented lyrium fern.”

“Is that what it's made of?” Bull asked. “I wondered.”

Varric reached for her tankard and washed the taste from his mouth with a large swallow of her ale, his eyes never leaving hers. Oh, she knew full well he didn't drink nearly as much as he pretended to, and it was worth her coin to see him fail to pretend just once. He scowled at her, but she could see the grin fighting to escape. He reached over and took the glass back and offered it to Bull. “My compliments, serah. Drink at your own risk.”

Bull knocked the entire glass back before anyone could stop him and made a contemplative face. “A bit cloying.”

Varric snorted. “No shit.”

Hawke was still chortling and wiggling around in his lap. He put a steadying hand on her outer hip to keep her in place and she stilled instantly, her body's reaction to him suddenly overpowering. There was something about being able to do this, where everyone could see. It was breathtaking. She gazed at him, the rest of the tavern now distant and nearly forgotten. His eyes met hers, warm and happy.

“You know,” she said aloud, vaguely in the direction of Bull. “He actually does call me something that no one else does, and I don't mean behind closed doors. Sure, it's not Daisy or Tiny or Moody. Or even Sweetheart, no that's reserved for Bianca,” she added with a smirk. “But...he's the only one who calls me by name. My first one, I mean.”

Bull looked equal parts wise and content, having rooted out a secret. “Ahh. Makes sense, I suppose. You humans put such stock in names. They have so many meanings.”

“Our names are part of our identity, Bull,” she said, pointedly, thinking of how many the former Ben-Hassrath had had himself.

“A fair point, Champion,” he replied, just as pointedly. She flapped a hand at him, dismissing her title.

“I don't use that anymore. It doesn't mean anything if I'm in exile, does it?”

“Perhaps not. But it is part of who you are, isn't it?”

She smirked. “Sure, so is rogue, mercenary and public drunk. Doesn't mean I go by any of those titles either.”

“Hey,” Varric protested. “You haven't been a public drunk in years.”

“Only because 'Bela isn't around.”

He grinned broadly. “Sometimes I miss Rivaini. Then I remember how much I enjoy sleeping peacefully at night.”

“Ah, another one,” Bull crowed. “Tell me Varric, what makes Hawke so special that she does _not_ get a nickname, since I assume that is the thought process behind it.”

“I'm surprised you have to ask that,” he said. She knew very well that he wasn't going to declare his deep, abiding love for her in front of a crowd, but she wondered how far he would deflect it. “Have you seen me with many human women on my lap, Tiny?”

“Another fair point.”

“Varric,” she teased. “That makes it sound like you have other kinds of women in your lap when I'm not around.”

“Shush, you,” he said, poking her in the hip. Then he turned more serious. “Hawke is Hawke, I guess. As important to me as Bianca.” He shrugged and laughed a little, almost in surprise. “Guess I never realized I only called you two by name.”

 _She_ had, she had known it for years. But she didn't say so, not here in mixed company. There were other outliers, but she knew the reasons behind those as well. Oddly enough, they were the same. Aveline and Cassandra both commanded respect, either willingly or unwillingly. And maybe a healthy dose of fear of getting his ass handed to him in very short order. But she wasn't going to say that out loud either. She kissed the broken bridge of his nose instead. “C'mon you. Let's get back to the Keep. Then you can call me whatever you like.”

He grinned mischievously. “I like the way you think, Cara.”


	9. Tickling**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's cold and snowy where I am, so here, have a love scene.

Hawke settled deeper into the copper tub, her knees poking out but the rest of her submerged to her chin. She let out a sigh as the heat seeped into sore muscles and aching joints. She really was getting too old for this. _Maker, you're only 36_ , she chided herself. _Granted, I've lived a life much harder than the average person_.

“You about done in there? You must be cooked,” he grumbled and she smiled to herself, imagining him still at his writing table waiting for her.

“Almost. I need a towel.”

Varric came around the partition, bringing her a towel he'd been warming by the fireplace. She smiled and reached out to take it from him, but he stopped short of her, grinning and waiting for her to stand up. Well, never let it be said that Hawke would deny her dwarf a chance to pamper her, so she did, letting him rub the warm towel over as much of her as he could reach.

“You're getting your shirt all wet,” she murmured as he leaned in close to scrub her arms dry. He didn't answer since he was evidently distracted by her breasts in his face. He brushed his lips along the underside of the curve of them and she shivered. He always found the most unusual ways to turn her into a puddle of boneless goo, most often with a light touch rather than an overwhelming one. For such a brazen man, he could be remarkably subtle. “Varric...”

“Hmm?” He knelt at her feet, briskly drying her legs, right down to her toes, making her brace herself on his solid shoulder for balance. He took advantage there too, placing soft kisses on the inside of each knee. His hair was already down and it slid forward against her skin, making her jump.

“That tickles,” she said. He chuckled, full of promise. “Oh, that's a sound that has me worried.”

He stood up again and turned her back to him, draping the towel over her shoulders and patting her back. “Is it? Can't imagine why.”

“What are you up to, Varric?”

“Me? I have no idea what you're talking about.” She could hear the smile in his voice, just about see the smirk on his lips with her eyes closed. He pulled the towel off her shoulders and placed a kiss on her spine. There was reverence in his touch, more so than normal.

“You're in a mood.”

“An appreciative one,” he said by way of agreement, tracing the scars and marks of a life lived on the run and in constant danger. A decade of friendship and half of that as lovers had made them so familiar with each other that words were often unnecessary. Hawke turned to face him again, her smile small but warm as she threaded her fingers into his hair. Strands of silver had appeared at his temples, mingling with the gold and red.

“Getting sentimental on me, old man?”

He smirked and tugged her down to kiss her. Without breaking the kiss, he maneuvered her around the divider and pushed her back until she fell across the bed, laughing. “Who you calling old?”

“C'mere, you,” she whispered.

He crawled over her, his shirt hanging loose enough that she could see right down the length of his chest. He kissed her again before she could say anything about him still being dressed and then she forgot what she was going to say anyhow. He moved down her body, his touch light so she squirmed. He pushed her leg up so her knee was bent and wedged himself at her hip, his hand firm on the underside of her thigh. Anticipation coiled in her belly. Silver tongued dwarves were good for more than just words.

The first touch of his mouth sent tingles through her and he let go of her thigh to slip his longest finger into her heat, pumping gently as he licked her. Her legs fell wider to give him greater access and he shifted, dipping his head. His hair slid silky against the back of her leg, right where it met her ass and she thrashed.

“Ack!” she shouted and squirmed away from him as he laughed. “Maker's balls, Varric! That tickled.”

He threw his other arm across her waist, holding her down and looked up at her. He was still pushing his finger in and out of her and her outrage was bleeding away as sensation won. Now she was whining for him to do more, to go deeper, harder. The teasing look in his eye was replaced by something much more searing. A second finger joined the first and he bent his head back to her clit, flicking it with his tongue until she was near to shouting. All at once the tension crested and she came hard on his fingers, squeezing them so tight he groaned. He pulled his fingers away and licked along her folds, away from her oversensitized clit. She raised her hips for him and he slid both hands under her ass to hold her in place to push his tongue inside her.

She gasped and flailed around as he pressed the flat of his thumb on her clit with his tongue still inside her, a reversal of position that brought her almost instantly near climax. She pulled at him, wanting _him_ now, not just his wicked mouth. With a final brush of his thumb he sat back on his knees, stripping off his shirt and wiping his face with it before tossing it to the floor. His pants soon followed and he was guiding his cock to her entrance before she even knew what happened. He filled her until their hips met, until he could stretch her no further.

“I'm going to need another bath, aren't I?” she panted out, feeling the prickles of sweat form on her skin as he began to stroke hard and fast in her. He didn't answer, just drew her knees up until they were nearly pressed on her chest, affording him the deepest angle he could get with her like this. There were no more words then, only cries of pleasure so intense she thought she saw stars. With a final shout she came again, her body arching into his. He followed her with a hoarse groan, finally releasing his grip on her legs to rest on her sternum.

She ran her hands over his shoulders and down what she could reach of his back, fingertips lightly walking across the bunched muscles. He hummed against her, vibrating her chest and she smiled, plotting her revenge. She let her hands slide down from his shoulder blades to his ribs, conveniently exposed since his arms were splayed out next to her.

“Don't you do it, Hawke,” he muttered and she muffled her laugh but didn't stop it from making her chest heave. He raised his head and glared at her just as she raked her fingernails along his ribs so lightly she could barely feel his skin.

Like lightning he grabbed her wrists and pinned them as she laughed. “You earned it, serah.”

For a moment his face was screwed up in mock anger, then he laughed. “All right, I did.”

She playfully struggled to get her hands free so she could tickle him again, but he held her down, spreading out his legs to give himself leverage and take away hers. He even had the audacity to run the tip of his tongue along the underside of her breast before he looked into her face again. “Careful there, Cara, you'll make me just have to get even.”

“Oh, 'even' is it?” She writhed in his arms and felt his unmistakable renewed interest between her thighs. “What else are you going to do?”

He leaned in close to her lips, just a breath away from kissing her. The glint in his eye promised her all sorts of delicious things. “I'm gonna wear out all my dwarven stamina, that's what I'll do.”

It was her turn to hum. “Is that so?”

With one thigh he kicked her own higher, tipping her hips up and sinking back into her with a satisfied sigh. “That is, indeed, so.”

“Excellent.”


	10. Breakfast In Bed**

The sun on her face woke her, followed swiftly by the fact that she was alone in the low bed. Hawke opened her eyes and looked around the tower room Varric kept for himself at Skyhold. A pang of regret spread through her chest to see his writing desk so neat and uncovered – meaning that he wasn't writing – but she knew the demands on his time were much greater here than she'd ever put on him in Kirkwall. It was a strange thought, since she'd always felt like she asked too much of him then.

The door of the chamber banged open, making her jump and she turned over, pulling the covers to her neck, until she saw Varric coming through, a large tray held between his hands. He bumped the door with his hip so it started to close, then finished the job with a well placed foot.

“What's this?” she asked and watched the light in his honey colored eyes brighten when he saw she was awake. 

“Breakfast, serah,” he announced with a flourish, setting the tray down on the writing desk. She noticed he was dressed only in trousers and a loose cambric shirt, which were both disappearing before her eyes once he'd kicked off his boots. The sight of his muscles bunching as he lifted the tray again nearly stopped her breath and she took a second too long to pull the covers back for him to slide back into bed with her. He chuckled. “Distracted?”

“Can you blame me?” she retorted, running her fingers across his stomach, feeling the muscles jump. “It's such a wonderful view.”

“Stop that now, Hawke, you'll make me tip the tray over.”

“Sorry,” she said, unrepentant. He scowled at her, but it was playful.

“It's so hard keeping up with you sometimes. You'll be the death of me, human.”

She shifted against his side, her thigh sliding up against his leg. “Hmm. What a way to go.”

He planted a kiss on top of her head and lifted the covers off the dishes on the tray. A small pot of tea brewed, nestled with two cups. On the dishes were golden brown slices of toast with melting pats of butter on them, fluffy eggs and rashers of bacon. A tiny pot of jelly stood to the side. “Where do you want to start?”

She reached for a slice of toast and a knife and spread the butter evenly before dipping into the jelly. A dollop fell off and landed on her chest and she huffed, but only for a second. She felt his eyes on her and looked at him. He appeared far hungrier for her than anything on the tray.

“Varric?”

“Hmm?” he murmured, completely oblivious to anything put the drop of jelly slowly rolling across her breast. He was leaning towards her now, the tray dangerously tipping, the teapot sliding across the lacquered wood. He captured her breast in his mouth just as the jelly was about to fall off her onto the sheets. By some miracle she'd never fathom, the tray skirted across the covers and landed safely – and upright – further down the bed. The china rattled but didn't spill. She wasn't paying attention anyway, not with his scruff rubbing her skin and his mouth sucking up remnants of jelly.

She arched into him, simultaneously moving so she fell back against the pillows. She whispered little nothings as he didn't stop there but worked his way down her body, his hands pushing her legs apart to settle between them. He leaned back on his knees, his hands running up and down her thighs, his callouses rasping on her skin. She made a show of eating her toast, crunching it loudly and scattering bits all over herself. Varric raised a brow at her.

“Crumbs, Hawke, in _my_ bed?”

“Are you going to kick me out?”

“I might,” he threatened, his face going comically dark. “Some things are unforgivable.”

She grinned at him and lifted a leg to wrap around him. He was certainly not kicking her out of anywhere in _that_ state. With a groan he slid home and she tucked her leg higher on his hip, using her strength to draw him close as she nonchalantly finished her toast.

“Are you not sufficiently distracted?” he inquired, moving within her with such ease that it answered his question for him with a solid negative. She writhed a little, just because she could, and enjoyed the growl that came out of him. He hiked both her legs up, spreading her wide so his bulk fit more neatly between them and leaned over her, peppering what he could reach with kisses. He got a mouthful of crumbs and spat, making a face and a disgruntled noise.

She laughed, running her fingers into his hair, then gasped as he drove so deep she saw stars. There was no more joking for a while, just the steady push and pull of their bodies, the rising urgency of wordless noises as they strained together, fell over the edge together.

Afterwards, he lay back on the pillows and watched her sitting up in the bed, her inky hair tousled around her shoulders and her face flushed with completion as she munched a strip of bacon. She offered him one too and he ate it slowly. She turned to pour a cup of tea and sipped it, made a face.

“Oh, fuck, the tea went cold.”


	11. Pillow Fight

“C'mon lazybones, time to get up.” Varric sounded awfully chipper for whatever time it was and Hawke grumbled and stuck her face deeper into her pillow. He smacked her backside with a light hand.

“Fuck you,” she mumbled.

“What? Again?”

That earned him a flailing kick, which he dodged while laughing.

“Fuck _off_. There, is that better?” 

“Hey, maybe I want to see your smiling face before I have to go find a quiet corner for the day.”

Hawke leaned up on an elbow, scowling at him through a curtain of tangled hair. She stuck her tongue out at him. Then his words registered. “Wait, where are you going today?”

“I need to get some writing done. For Cassandra, apparently. Astrid talked me into it.” He sounded disgruntled, but she wasn't buying it.

“And you're just now telling me this?” She threw her pillow at him. He caught it with a smirk.

“Hey, I only just agreed to this nonsense.”

“How could you have agreed to anything at this ungodly hour? How long have you been up?”

“Cara, it's nearly noon.”

“Ugh. You need to stop wearing me out so much.”

He threw the pillow back at her, his tone playful. “Stop being so Maker damned fuckable.”

She stuck her tongue out again and stuffed the pillow under her head, fully intent on going back to sleep. Or at least pretending to, just to see what he'd do.

“Hawke.”

“Hmm?” She feigned a yawn with her sleepy sound and tucked herself further into the blankets.

“Come have breakfast with me. Well...luncheon.”

“Bring me some toast. Give you an excuse to get back into bed with me.”

He sighed comically. “And there she goes, once more being irresistible. And no more toast in my bed, woman.”

“Pfft.”

From the corner of her eye she saw his hand coming to steal the pillow right out from under her head and gripped it tighter. He tugged and pulled her completely upright with it. Maker, but she _still_ tended to forget just how strong he was. She flopped dramatically into him, the pillow between them, her huffs turned to giggles as he tried to wrestle the pillow away.

“Hawke,” he said, starting to sound more exasperated, but when she peeked through her lashes, he was smiling. She leaned back suddenly and swatted him with the pillow as hard as she could. “What's gotten into you?”

“Not enough you.”

They wrestled over the pillow some more and she got in another whack or two against his solid chest before he tore it from her fingers – hard enough that she heard a seam give – and tossed it across the room. She didn't have time to complain, however, since he pulled her tight to him, shoving her legs apart on the edge of the bed to stand between them. Their mouths met in a sloppy tangle, no precision. His teeth dragged at her lower lip and she gasped. He bit down a little harder and she hummed.

She tightened her legs around him, lifting them to cross behind his back. She leaned backwards, hoping to topple them over, but again his strength held her up. “Thought you were all worn out,” he teased, his golden eyes twinkling.

“I lied.” She kissed him again, this time catching his lip between _her_ teeth. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close. Gradually the heat lowered from a rapid boil to a simmer and their kisses grew gentler. He smoothed his hands through her hair, tugging at snarls until they lay flat. She pressed her forehead to his, her eyes closed, soothed just by his presence.

Her stomach growled.

He laughed and stepped away from her, crossing the room to gather up the pillow a final time, whacking her with it before he put it back where it belonged. “You'd be hopeless without me, you know that?”

“Probably.”

“Put some clothes on, and come eat something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it ended up being more fighting *over* the pillow and less *with* it, but I still think it counts.


	12. Snuggling

Hawke burrowed into Varric's side, her cheek resting in the hollow of his shoulder, her fingers threaded through his chest hair. “When this is all over, I want to come back to Kirkwall.”

He shifted slightly, his hand on the back on her head, cradling her. “ _That_ will be fun.”

“I mean it. No Exalted March is coming now, not after this.” She waved her hand around in a formless gesture encompassing all of the Inquisition. “No more Champion, just Cara Hawke, Head of the House of Amell. Part time mine owner and public drunk.”

She kissed his chest and his arm tightened around her. Their skin slid against each other in the firelight of his rooms in Skyhold. Outside it was cold and dark, but here, in this sacred space they'd carved out for each other, it was warm. For a while they were quiet, just resting together, their legs entwined, their bodies curled around each other's shape. She was positive people thought it strange that a human and a dwarf fit together so neatly, so perfectly. But it wasn't strange to her. _I've never wanted anything but him_.

“I get that a lot,” he murmured, and she realized she'd spoken aloud. He chuckled, the sound rich in her ear pressed to him. 

“Maker preserve me from charming dwarves,” she sighed, snuggling in closer still to his body. She tilted her head so her chin was cushioned on the curve of his chest and she peered at him. “What do you think...little Tethrases?”

“Hah,” he barked, tapping her shoulder so she leaned up and he could roll to his side facing her. “That would make the Assembly shit all over themselves. The noble House of Tethras mingled with...gasp, dare I say it?... _humans_.”

She quirked a grin at him. “You've always said you didn't care about tradition. What better way to poke a stick in their eye?”

“You just like what I do to you too much.”

He leaned on one arm, moving around so they stayed face to face. She nodded into the pillow, lumpy under her head but still warm from him. “I don't hear you complaining much, serah.”

He huffed and ran his free hand over her hair, twining the raven locks through his fingers. “And you won't.” He leaned in to her and gave her a sweet kiss. “Little Tethrases would grow up to be big Tethrases.”

She giggled. “Worried your own children would be taller than you?”

“You humans. So much leg.” He suited action to words, reaching under the covers to swipe his hand along the length of her thigh, drawing it up to drape over his hip. His hand followed the line of her leg up to her backside, pulling her in close. She giggled again as parts of him grew very interested in being reacquainted with parts of her.

“You planning to start on that family now?” she teased.

He kissed her again, deeper this time. “No time to waste. Neither of us is getting any younger.”

She pulled back and gave him a mock scowl. “You calling me long in the tooth, Varric?”

“Hush, come back here.” It was easy and slow, the rise and fall of their breath in time to slide of their joined bodies. The crest washed over her gently, spiraling out from her core to her limbs in a hazy wave. She hummed a soft sound as their positions were now reversed and he lay on her chest, his hair tickling her arm, his fingers tracing absently on her skin. She knew they should rest, but she was too content to stay in the moment to let it be wasted by something so mundane as sleep.

“Will we grow old together?” she asked presently.

“That's a good plan,” he replied, laying his hand against her heartbeat. “I like it.”

“All right then.”

He rolled off of her and she turned her back to him, letting him curl against her, his arm wrapping around her. She laced their fingers together and held them close to her heart. She giggled. “I could bring Goliath home.”

“Ugh, just my luck to fall for a Fereldan dog lord,” he muttered into her hair, but he was shaking with laughter. He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, making her shiver. “Fine, the beast can come too.”

“I promise to keep him away from any drapes. And I'll try to keep him from knocking you over.”

“I'll believe it when I see it,” he retorted before he yawned. “Get some sleep, Hawke.”


	13. Finishing Each Other's Sentences

“Ooh, that one,” Hawke said, pointing to a rock formation floating just off their path.

“Looks like nug shit,” Varric replied. They both laughed and she caught Dorian rolling his eyes at them.

“How is it possible that the two of you are so damned _cheerful_? This is the Fade. We are physically _in_ the Fade.”

“Sparkler, when you've been through as much as I have especially with this woman, shit starts to just roll off your back a bit. So we're in the Fade. We found what we need, we know there's a way out and we're headed towards it.” He shrugged. “Just another day.”

“You two are impossibly foolish.”

“Love makes fools of us all,” Hawke said with all the cheer he accused them of. “Just you wait, you'll see.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow at her, and she remembered who the Tevinter mage was actually _involved_ with. She tried to suppress a grin, but it escaped. After a moment, Dorian gave in and returned it. Mentally picturing Iron Bull as a lovesick fool was a little challenging, after all.

The party crested the rise and the Fade opened up around them, a broad expanse of floating rocks, green fog and the rift back to their side of the Veil, flickering in the distance up a precipitous trail. Hawke and Varric exchanged sighs of relief and she grabbed hold of his shoulder. Of course, the moment had to be ruined by the... _thing_...climbing down out of the fog.

“Uh...Varric?”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Maker, preserve us,” Stroud said under his breath. Hawke pulled her daggers, changing her grip to battle ready.

The creature was huge, covered in eyes and stalk-like legs, rising higher and higher around them. It was a mutation of everything natural and good and she knew without a doubt that they would have to fight it to escape. Why was it always spiders? “Promise me, something, my love...” she started, still attempting to be cheerful and probably failing quite hard.

“I'll never knowingly bring you to the demon infested locations again, I swear,” Varric finished dryly before she could say it.

“Not for all the gold in Orzammar, eh?” she continued, knowing that's what he would swear by.

“Ugh, as adorable as you are and all,” Dorian said, stepping between them and readying his staff, “can we get on with it? Some of us would like to smell fresh air again in this lifetime.”

The glowing figure that had been the spirit calling itself Justinia floated ahead of them, passing along a final message for Astrid to deliver. “Tell Leliana, I'm sorry I failed her too...” the wisp intoned before she exploded in a shower of light and flames, throwing the Nightmare over the edge of the narrow passage, its legs scuttling with a screeching sound. Below, still on its feet, was the Aspect, its arms spread wide.

“You _owe_ me...”

“...A drink or ten, I'm on it as soon as we get home, Hawke.”

The fight was dirty and long, sapping them of their strength and breath to speak. She and Varric danced together like they always did, perfectly in unison, Bianca aimed over her shoulder so closely she could feel the wind of the bolts as they passed by. Her daggers were fairly useless against the Aspect of the Nightmare, but she kept its attention on her with slashes and jabs, letting Dorian and Astrid stand back to use their magic on it.

At last the monstrosity of a demon fell, leaving their path open. They didn't even stop to catch their breaths, but ran towards the rift they could see not far off. Dorian ran with Varric, half holding the dwarf on his feet as Hawke stayed close to Astrid, not trusting anything. This was the Fade. Nothing was as it seemed.

She had only a moment to regret being right before the bloated spider rose up from the shadows, swirls of green fog around its legs. “Fuck me...”

Stroud stopped next to her, his breath heaving in his chest. “We need to clear a path. The Inquisitor must get out!”

“Go,” Hawke said, before she could stop herself. Varric stopped short and turned sharply towards her, his face thunderous. “I'll cover you.”

She met Varric's eyes, pleaded silently that he would understand. He did, but he didn't want to. _Flemeth told me to leap when I reached the Abyss, my love. This is it_. “No, dammit Hawke. Don't do this!”

“Warden Stroud,” she said, never taking her eyes off her dwarf, “take care of my sister.”

“No, you were right,” Stroud argued. “The Grey Wardens caused this. A Warden must...”

“A Warden must survive to pick up the pieces of what's left once Corypheus is defeated. I can't do that, but you can,” she spat, giving him a shove. “GO!”

Dorian led Astrid off, helping her sneak past the Nightmare. Stroud followed, keeping an eye on the beast. Varric stared at Hawke, his face contorted in horror and anguish. “Corypheus needs to die screaming. It should have been me doing it. I need you to make that happen for me, love.”

“Cara...”

“C'mon, did you really think it was going to be any other way? Varric, I love you more than air. Let me save you to go back to it. Please.” She cupped his face and swiftly kissed him, pulling a single bolt from his quiver. “Go.”

“And what am I supposed to do without you, huh?”

“Find Bethany. Tell her I love her. You keep each other safe. Promise me!”

He stumbled backwards, his eyes never leaving hers. “I will, Cara. I love you.”

Determination settled on her frame, watching him run. “HEY, UGLY!” she shouted to the Nightmare, distracting it from the racing party so it focused on her. “Come and get me!”

She slid under the Nightmare, ignoring its hissing sounds as she used the crossbow bolt to anchor herself to its carapace before she went over the edge. “Always the Maker damned spiders,” she muttered, hacking away at it with her dagger, hoping she was far enough underneath it that it couldn't strike at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the rift blink closed with a flash. “So be it. I'll find another way home, just you watch me.”

The Nightmare hissed around her, but she ignored it. She wasn't afraid.

She was angry. She had a life to dream of, a future full of half-dwarven babies that she wasn't ready to give up on. She was _going_ _to get home_.


	14. Bonus Fluff

Hawke literally fell out of the Fade.

Solas had told her to focus on what she wanted, and so she had. She didn't know how long she'd traveled, or how far – was measurable distance even a thing in the Fade? – but she'd finally gotten to a spot where the Veil was thin. The Old Song swelled in her mind, drowning out everything else. She pressed her hand and the crossbow bolt she'd never let go of into the place where the Song was loudest, forcing her way through. For a moment she'd been in freefall, weightless but shifting, and then she'd been on pavement in the dark of night.

She landed on her knees and vomited bile before she was able to look up and see where she was. It was hard to tell in the gloom. Tendrils of fog curled around the foundation of buildings and obscured roads and for a moment she froze, her first instinct to think that she was still in the Fade. She shook her head and looked again; the fog wasn't green. She'd had enough of green fog to last her several lifetimes. She knew she was in Kirkwall, she could hear the chains in the harbor. She got up and stumbled down alleys and streets, eventually turning a corner that her feet hadn't forgotten even though she still didn't know where she was on a conscious level. She sank to her knees once more and she laughed, the sound coming out more like sobs.

The swinging sign of the Hanged Man hadn't changed, although the building had. It was raining, and she lifted her face to it, letting it wash her clean from however long she'd been stuck there, battling for her life and her wits. She opened her mouth to the rain, drinking in the sweet simple taste of skyborne water.

The door to the tavern opened. The sound of her cackling must have drawn the attention of the crowd inside. She wondered... 

“Demon!” Varric snapped, pointing Bianca at her. She stayed on her knees, looking him over. He looked _awful_. Not so much in how he was dressed – which was far richer than she'd ever seen – but in his face. He looked haggard and exhausted, with deep lines between his brows that hadn't been there before. He looked older.

He looked like he'd mourned her for far too long.

“How long has it been?” she asked. Time and distance might have no meaning inside the Fade, but that didn't translate to how much was passing outside of it. She knew at least on some level that it had been long enough for Solas to put his plans into motion. Not that she even knew what they were. Just that the elf was no longer _just_ an elf. _Getting sidetracked, Hawke_. “Varric, how long?”

“Do not call me by my name, demon,” he spat, still holding Bianca aimed at her face. “You can't fool me, Hawke is _dead_.”

“No...” she whispered. She hadn't considered this. Well, she had, but only briefly before she'd been stuck in another fight for her life with the denizens of the far side before finally getting herself somewhere 'safe'. “My name is Carmilla Marian Hawke. I've always hated it because it was too high class and girly,” she went on, almost desperately, seeing him still stare at her in revulsion and fear. She paused for breath, wondering what possible thing she could say that only they two would have known. “The first thing you said to me was 'how do you do' and you were twirling a bolt on your fingers like a showoff. You'd stopped a pickpocket for me. You clocked him. Varric, please...it's me. It's really me.”

Bianca dipped but didn't fall completely in his hands. A crowd had gathered around him, standing well clear of his line of fire. He was still staring at her, but the expression had fallen flat into shock. He cleared his throat and finally spoke. “Right hand or left?”

“What?”

“Right hand or left. How did I clock him?”

“Milord...?” one of the onlookers asked softly, as if he too couldn't understand why that was important.

Hawke's eyes widened and she surged to her feet, ignoring the dizziness that had set in once her body realized she wasn't just a figment of her own imagination. “Maker damn you for a nug wrangler! When did you start cashing in on that Merchant Prince bullshit? And it was a left hook, you ambidextrous son of a... _dwarf_.”

He wasn't looking at her face now. He was staring at her hand. She held up the bolt and let him see it, dulled from use, ragged at the ends where she'd constantly carried it. That wasn't the only thing he was looking at. A tendril of bright blue traced along the length of her middle finger from the tip, spreading out to cover her palm in etched lines and crooked angles. It looked almost exactly like a vein of raw lyrium, as indeed it was a lyrium mark. She'd never been a mage, even though the magic ran strong in her family, but through trial and error she had learned she could make things _real_ , a useful tool in the Fade where so much was not. Her first meeting with Solas had anchored it firmly into the fiber of her being, and now it would never leave her.

The transition from angry to awed in Varric's eyes started slow, so slow she nearly missed it. Then he was laughing and Bianca slid behind his back into her holster. And then his hands were on her face, pulling her back to her knees, cradling her cheek as rain washed down on them both. “Hawke? My Hawke?”

“Varric, tell me, please. How long has it been?” She leaned into his touch, never forgotten, no matter how much had happened since the last time his hand caressed her face.

“Five years, Cara. It's been five years since we left you in the Fade.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the years she'd missed. No wonder Solas was surprised that she had still been there when she saw him, just...just a while ago. No wonder she could hear the Song so strongly, when most people didn't hear it at all. She'd known that lyrium passed between both sides, and stayed close to it when she could in her endless searching for a place the Veil was thin. She knew it had changed her. And now it had brought her home, no matter how long it had taken. _Just like he said it would_.

When she opened her eyes again, she put any thought of the elvhen mage god out of her mind and smiled at her dwarf. Varric hadn't gone on without her, it seemed. She lifted a trembling hand and covered his against her cheek. So much time had passed. Were they even still the same people as before? Would her Templar-like abilities scare him away? After everything that had happened to him, he was not likely to be much of a fan.

“My lord Viscount,” another voice said, breaking the perfect silence of the moment. “Should we not still test her...er...I mean to say...she could still be a demon...”

Varric tossed a scowl over his shoulder and the crowd shrank back from him. “I know this woman. She is the Champion of Kirkwall.” He looked back to her, his eyes twinkling now in the spilled light from the Hanged Man. “And she's mine.”

He kissed her then, in front of them all and the years and miles shed off her like the rain pouring off her shoulders, inconsequential and irrelevant. His breath warmed her face and his touch made her feel solid. She could have stayed there in the rain forever as long as he was kissing her, his presence filling her with the Song, grounding her in what was true.

When he finally drew back, she smirked at him, a flicker of the old Hawke coming through. “So...Viscount?”

He smirked back and while at first it seemed unfamiliar to his facial muscles, they remembered at last and it looked more natural. Her trusty dwarf. Storyteller. Rogue. Love of her life. “Yeah. _Shit_ , you've missed a lot. Hey, you wanna take a shot at being a Viscountess?”

Something grew in her, something warm and golden that spread through her limbs like fire, like healing. The Song flared in her head, then fell soft, whispering from the corners. She realized she knew more than he thought she did, and passed a final thought for Solas...Fen'Harel. She might know _more_ than Varric now.

 _No time to waste_ , she thought. _He said for whatever time remained_. She stood up, shaking the rain from her eyes. “Little Tethrases,” she whispered aloud, seeing Varric's faint smile echo her own. She could make that happen now, couldn't she? “You're on, Varric. As soon as you buy me dinner. And a drink or ten.”

“I can do that.” He took her hand in his. “What _happened_ to your hair?”

She huffed lightly, the mundane question so beyond funny that she almost didn't know how to reply. She touched the roughly shorn ends. Felt like an hour ago. A year. A century. Maybe just a few seconds. “I cut it off. It's a long story.”

“Well, we've got time.”

She followed him into the Hanged Man without answering. Somewhere out there her friend was hurting, too many of her friends were hurting. The wolf still counted among the sheep. But that was for later. Now was for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late night headcannon videos led me down some pretty meta pathways that left me with questions. Like, what would the Fade do to a person physically trapped inside it? If lyrium is the lifeblood of the Old Gods or Titans or whatever, (and red lyrium is technically alive) how would it affect the duality of the Veil? How would it change a person exposed to it for years and years? What would Hawke be like if they turned into some kind of eldritch hybrid? What if Solas had a hand in that because he's not a cruel monster, but a tragic figure doomed to do what he feels he needs to? I have plans to expand on this fic, give it more heft, more plot, and probably more angst since let's face it, it's a Bioware story. Stay tuned.


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